When the Fictorians invited me to contribute some thoughts to their month-long seminar on tension, I thanked them politely but told them I was out of the game.
“You’re not out until we say you’re out,” Jo Ann Schneider growled. With an ugly smirk, she pushed a polaroid across the table at me– my missing iPad, battered but recognizable, bound with duct tape, sitting on today’s newspaper.
“You’ll pay for this,” I said. But she was already gone.
Gritting my teeth, I sat down and started typing . . .